Confession
by Mirriam Q Webster
Summary: True confession of a teenage muggle uh, I mean wizard. A small glimpse of our favorite pigtailed boy. COMPLETE
1. A son's confession

Disclaimer: I am not the lovely and talented Ms. Rowling; therefore I do not actually own any part of the Potterverse. I only play around in it from time to time.

Piers once asked me why I hate my cousin so much. At the time I said something about him being an ungrateful little wanker who took my food and my second bedroom and too much of my parents' attention. "Okay, Big D" Piers said with a shrug, but it got me thinking. That's not really why I hate my cousin, though they are perfectly good reasons. The truth is I'm jealous of him. I know it sounds absurd; why should I, Dudley Dursley, be jealous of poor, parentless Harry Potter? And yet I am. He has something that I should have but never can: magic.

I've thought about this long and hard, and I'm not as stupid as my prat-cousin thinks I am. Before he went away to that school I disliked him because my parents disliked him. I bullied him because I could get away with it. You can imagine my surprise the first time I bullied Harry at school and got sent to the headmaster's for it. Not that it made much of an impression; mum took me out for ice cream that day to make up for it. After all, it was only Harry.

I didn't get a letter when he did. My parents hate him so much for his "freakish abnormality," I can't imagine what they would do if they found out about my little secret, though I sometimes wonder if they don't suspect it. All my life my parents indulged my every whim, I was never allowed to be too frightened or to angry or too upset. I didn't know why until I went to Smeltings.

No one at school indulged me or cosseted me like I was used to. In fact, most of the boys there teased me, especially those in the upper forms, which is part of the reason why I took up boxing.

When I was at my worst it began. I noticed odd things happening. Things broke or disappeared; items jumped off shelves or tables or appeared on my bed when I _knew_ they hadn't been there a moment ago. I once managed to make a hot fudge sundae appear and I was nearly too afraid to eat it. It tasted lovely, but it wasn't very filling. At first, I thought that my cousin had somehow contaminated me, or that it was all a side effect of that huge man giving me a pig tail, but the effects did not fade or go away, in fact they seemed to get stronger as time passed.

It was the summer after my first year at Smeltings when the letter came. Potter was locked in his room, so when Dad asked me to get the post there was no real way to get out of it. Right there on the front mat was one of the funny parchment envelopes with bright green ink. I hid it in my pocket until I got up to my first bedroom, my only bedroom now.

I opened the letter with a great deal of anticipation and my eyes nearly popped out of my head when I saw the letter. In old-fashioned script and lime-green ink I was told that I was magical and invited to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I would be older than most of my year mates, but that was not overly unusual for muggleborns like me. The letter said it was important for me to learn to control my magic so as not to endanger myself or those around me. But I knew only too well why my cousin was locked up in his room, Dad had groused about it for weeks. I did the only thing I could think to do at the time; I burned the letter and pretended it never came. Unlike my cousin, who must have gotten hundreds of letters, I never got another.

For a long time I told myself that it didn't matter, I didn't care, and the whole lot was rubbishy anyway. But I did care, and that is the other reason why I took up boxing. I thought it would help me control myself better and it would mean that I could knock any wizard flat before he could go for his wand.

It wasn't until recently, the summer before fifth year, in fact, that I realized what a fool I had been to throw away my opportunity. It wasn't until the moment I was nearly kissed that I felt exactly how much I regretted my actions. We were both of us angry that night, and when Harry pulled his wand on me I was worked up enough to actually do magic, to show him that he wasn't the only one who was special. When all the lights went out, however, I found I was terrified.

I kept hoping that it was something he had done and could fix, and that I hadn't somehow managed to make the world go out. I ran down the alley and that thing got me. You would think that a close encounter with a dementor would make you very glad that you had avoided the magical world. It doesn't. I kept thinking that no amount of boxing skill was going to help me now, and if only I hadn't burned that letter I would be able to get myself out of this mess. In the end it was my cousin who saved me, my cousin who got me home and my cousin who explained what I could not.

The only comfort I can take from this is that he got punished for it.

Not long after that we came home one evening and found him gone. And now we've come to pick him up at the train station. My mother clutched at me when we met those wizards, like she was trying to protect me. If only she knew.

All I could think was how much I wanted that, wanted to be a powerful wizard, wanted to have friends who would stand by me and stand up for me. The ones I have now run at the slightest sign of trouble. And I realized once again how jealous I am of him, and how much I hate him for that.

A/N: Just a short drabble dealing with the "pig in a wig." I have never been able to understand why parents who claim to love their child so much can do so poorly by him. At any rate, this idea has been cooking for a while now, and while I know the official position is that this could never happen, I thought it was worth considering. Read and review, please, and let me know what you think. Flames will be used to line the salamander's censor.

MQW


	2. A mother's plea

A/N: I wasn't sure whether or not I would actually write this, but as you can see, I have. Many of you mentioned this as a possibility, and I confess I had thought about it too. Mutti is actually a German diminutive for mother, much like mum or mom, but I thought it could be passed down as a family name in England where practically no one would be using it. Think of it as being something like Nana here, and I do hope I haven't offended anyone who actually speaks German fluently.

I still remember the day I got my letter. Lily, a charming, bouncy six-year-old at the time, was suffering from an acute case of the chicken pox and I had been packed off to Mutti's for the duration. Mutti, my mother's mother, was a devout woman from southern Germany, and when she asked about the odd-looking letter I had, I read it out to her. She snatched it from me and destroyed it before my very eyes. She said it was wickedness and I was not to concern myself with it. No granddaughter of hers, she said, would attend such an unnatural abomination.

I loved my Mutti very much, and she was so angry that she frightened me. She wanted to know what I had done, to get such a letter. I had always had a knack for finding things that had been lost, and I supposed that was it, but I told her that I had done nothing. It took quite a lot of convincing to make her believe me. When at last she was satisfied, she warned me to speak of the incident to no one, otherwise I would be rejected as a freak.

I was no prettier as a child than I am now, I harbor no illusions on that score, and making friends had always been difficult for me; I could imagine only too clearly what would happen if people found out I was really a witch. It was a hard secret to keep, it was as though knowing had set loose some power inside me, and I had to make a nearly constant effort to control the magic that was continually trying to get out. It was hardest when Mutti died, the year I turned thirteen. There were a few small mishaps, but no one noticed or realized what they were, and after a time I had become very adept at that form of self-control.

You may imagine my shock and consternation when, five years after the first peculiar, parchment envelope had arrived, a second letter came. This time, however, the letter came for Lily. My mother and father were not disappointed or disgusted, as I had imagined they would be, instead they were both pleased and proud. Suddenly it was as though Lily could do no wrong.

My sister was, of course, permitted to attend Hogwarts and from her many letters home I could tell she was thriving. I was jealous, and then I grew bitter. It seemed she was having such fun, fun that I had been denied. She wanted to tell me all about everything she had seen and done while she was away, but I couldn't bear it. I shoved her away as much as possible. Eventually she brought James Potter home and I could not help but hear some of what he told her. Strange things he told her, wonderful and terrible things, things that a part of me cried out to know more of, and I hugged those few pieces of forbidden knowledge to myself, despising James and Lily and myself even as I did so.

I thought I had finally left that part of me behind, buried forever, when I married Vernon. Vernon was as thoroughly Muggle and ordinary as it was possible to be, and that suited me just fine. With him I could never again feel the exquisite torture of learning something of that other, alien world.

I knew, of course, when Dudley was born, that there was a chance my son would be like me, but I also knew that if he wasn't upset he would be less likely to reveal any unusual talents, and so I indulged him shamelessly. I cannot say that I am particularly proud of that, but I felt I could not take the chance.

And then came that fateful morning when I found my nephew lying on my doorstep. I shrieked. What else could I do? Despite my best efforts _it_ had come back to haunt me. I decided then that I would not allow Harry to ruin my life or my son's. We had no choice but to take him into our home, but we did not have to accept his magic, and I knew he had it. What else could he be but a powerful wizard, with the parents he'd had? And so I treated the boy like dirt under my feet and I taught my son to do the same.

I am not proud of that either, but I was successful. My nephew may be magical, but my son is not, my Dudley is perfectly normal and will never know the pain I have known. That is my consolation, that the nightmares my nephew has. Obviously the magical world is not the paradise they would have us believe, and I have spared my Dudley that horror as well.

A/N2: It has been suggested that I find a beta reader. If anyone is interested in volunteering for the position, please tell me in a review. If you could leave your email address and a perhaps a short explanation of why you think you would be a good choice. I would like you to be reasonably familiar with the books as well as the rules of grammar, punctuation, spelling, etc. Thanks! MQW


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